He knew the minute he had started to read Angela’s diary that there was a chance for him to make a few bob for himself. This was a teacher she was going on about, a square peg. Henderson remembered the teachers from his school days: they were all full of themselves, thought they were better than him, thought they were better than everyone. He still despised them. The same social worker that had described him as ‘self-loathing’ had also detailed his ‘reluctance to accept authority’ — he agreed with her. He didn’t like being told what to do by stuck-up twats who looked down their noses at you. And here was one of them, trying it on with a schoolgirl. Even though it was only Angela, and in Henderson’s eyes she was worthless, the teacher, Crawley, had no idea about that. As far as Henderson saw it this was a square peg acting out of turn and he was going to have to pay the price for it; his price.
Henderson watched as the teaching staff started to exit the school building. They were just as he remembered them, just as they always had looked. It was all jackets and ties, pinafores and packed-lunch boxes tucked under the arm with a copy of the Guardian. They all headed off to their Volvos and their Audi estates, some clutching armfuls of exercise books that they’d spend the night poring over with a red pen. He remembered the way they went on about that, the marking. How they’d spent their whole night on it and how disappointed they were with some of the work. They always meant him, thought Henderson. They always hated him. He smiled, it didn’t seem to matter that much now. It might have then, years ago, but things were different. He knew what they were really like, he’d seen through them.
As he stood at the gates he felt a speck of rain fall on his face, he looked up to the sky. Dark clouds had gathered over the roof of the school and perched there like gargoyles; there was another downpour on the way. He put up the collar on his denim jacket, it felt cold and damp against the skin of his neck. He didn’t want to get another soaking but Henderson knew he had to see this job through now. He couldn’t wait any longer, he had waited long enough. There was the problem of people losing interest too; he hadn’t seen or heard any more on the television or in the newspapers about the murder out at Straiton. People were funny these days, they had short attention spans. All it took was a new signing at Hibs, or someone to make an arse of themselves on Britain’s Got Talent, and the news was full of nothing else. He shook his head at the idea of more middle-class men in suits from the press attempting to thwart his plans.
He leaned in closer to the wall, tried to shelter himself as the rain picked up its pace, fell harder. He had asked Angela for a detailed description of Crawley. She had been reluctant at first, even the thought of it seemed to rattle her out of her wits, but she conceded in the end, with some encouragement. He hadn’t even needed to take his belt off again.
Angela said Crawley was a games teacher, always wore a tracksuit and was lanky. He had large hands that looked too big for his long arms and they flapped about when he spoke and when he walked. He sounded odd, like he would stick out.
Angela had said, ‘He is — he looks like a rat — he’s got a rat’s face, pointy.’
Henderson replayed her description now, tried to make sure he had all the information in place. He couldn’t afford to mistake him for someone else, or, worse, miss him entirely. There was too much at stake for that.
‘He’s got pale hair, it’s thin and wispy, and sits low on his forehead. And he sweats a lot, like he’s just been out for a run. His hair’s always sticking flat to his forehead too, when he’s sweating…’ She trailed off then.
Henderson had watched her start bubbling with tears, and when he asked her for more of a description she folded over on the mattress and held her sides. He realised that was his lot. It would have to do.
The main door of the school building opened and a man carrying a gym bag appeared; he wasn’t wearing a tracksuit but Henderson was sure of his identity at once. He dropped his cigarette on the ground, crushed it under his foot, and started to cross the car park in pursuit of the man. He put his hand in his pocket, gripped the Stanley knife’s haft. He watched his subject pitch up on his toes to manoeuvre himself around the wing mirrors of two closely parked cars, then he placed his bag on the ground in front of the driver’s door of a silver Corolla.
Henderson watched and followed in silence. He let Crawley open the door, shove his gym bag over to the back seat, and then get inside the car. He broke into a jog as he heard the ignition being turned. As he reached the side of the vehicle he grabbed the handle of the Corolla’s passenger’s door and stuck in his head.
‘Mr Crawley?’ he said.
A wide-eyed stare greeted him. ‘Yes.’
Henderson had the Stanley blade out of his pocket as he jumped into the front seat. He took the blade, forced its edge into Crawley’s line of vision — made sure he had a good look at it — then rested it on the pink flesh of his neck. ‘We’re going for a wee drive, Mr Crawley.’
The teacher’s face lost all its colour, his thin lips began to tremble. Henderson noticed he did indeed sweat a lot, a line of perspiration rolled towards the Stanley blade.
‘ W-what?’ he said.
‘You fucking heard…’ Henderson drew back his fist, put the butt of the knife into the cheekbone. Crawley yelped in pain and dropped his head towards the wheel. ‘Now get fucking moving before I take your throat out with this.’ Henderson shook the blade before the teacher’s face.
Crawley settled his hands on the wheel, engaged the clutch.
Chapter 29
Neil Henderson kept the Stanley knife tight in his hand as Crawley drove out of the school gates. His palm grew sticky around the warm piece of metal, he felt his fingers ache. There was a passing moment when he wondered if he had done the right thing, or if he had made a mistake that was going to deliver him straight back to the prison he had just left. The thoughts goaded him, raced around inside his head so fast that he started to feel a dull ache in the back of his skull. What choice did he have? he asked himself. He couldn’t rely on Angela to come up with enough money to keep Boaby Stevens quiet, for even a little while, and he had no other prospects. Henderson felt forced into his actions, driven by circumstance: he had to free himself of Shaky; maybe after that he could think about what he was going to do with his life. Right now it wasn’t an option — he almost laughed at the thought of backing out. Options like that were for other people, the square pegs; folk like teachers. Though not Crawley, he had no options left.
Henderson gripped the knife even tighter, but his whole hand stiffened; he shifted the blade into his other hand and stretched out his fingers on the stiff one. As they pulled into the traffic, he caught sight of Crawley moving his eyes towards him. He didn’t like Crawley looking at him, he didn’t like Crawley full stop; he had a face like a rat, pointy; just like Angela said. ‘You just keep watching the fucking road,’ he roared, smacked the Stanley blade off the dash; the noise made the teacher flinch.
‘Y-You’ll never get away with it.’
Had Crawley grown bolder? wondered Henderson. Had he started to puff himself up now that they had driven further from the school? He hadn’t quite reached cockiness yet but Henderson wondered if he was already being too soft on him. Should he sound more threatening? Should he carve him a little? Maybe just a nick on his cheekbone to shut him up? The trouble was, he had never been in this situation before; it was new territory. Henderson knew exactly what to expect when it came to noising up scrotes on the inside, or tarts down the Links, but real people were a different matter. He didn’t know how to handle them. He toyed again with the idea of marking him, raised the blade to his face a few times but withdrew it. That was going too far, at this stage. He wanted to mark him, wanted to do worse; he steadied himself, calmed it down. He told himself there was no need to be anxious; after all, this was not a real person — he just looked that way. Crawley was a beast, and everybody understood what that meant. Beasts got what they deserved in the end and he was the man that was making sure Crawley got his.
The Stanley blade was for the end of the line though, thought Henderson. If Crawley got carried away, if he got out of order, he would get the knife right away — no question. But Henderson knew he needed to wield the threat of it right now to keep him in his place. He said, ‘Never get away with it… Should be me that’s saying that to you.’
Crawley’s arms looked locked, frozen to the wheel. His hands were tight clamps, his knuckles white. He stuttered, ‘I–I don’t understand
… Look, why are you doing this? It’s kidnapping, you know that.’
